


between the shadow and the soul

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, I don't know how that happened, M/M, an incredible amount of swearing in the second chapter oops, tw for bruises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Enjolras almost said "I love you", and the one time he actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

The first time he almost says it, they're in Enjolras' bed, laying next to each other, feet tangled in the dark red sheets.

Enjolras is on his back, neck craned over his pillow as he stares through the open window, at the stars, which shine unusually bright tonight. Cold breeze flutters the curtains, and slips into the room, ghosting over their bodies lightly, making Grantaire shiver and cling tighter to Enjolras, one arm curled over his waist, and his chin setting neatly into Enjolras' shoulder as he buries his face in his neck and inhales deeply, with delight, his face the epitome of contentment. Grantaire's pale skin practically glistens in the moonlight, his black curls blending in with the room's shadows.

He looks almost ethereal; a child of the night, of the moon, of the dark.

It goes in contrast with everything Enjolras is: bright scorching fire and glowing light.

 _Maybe that's why it's so addictive_ , thinks Enjolras.

The first time it happened, they were both drunk, and argued loudly about some issue or the other, both of them quite oblivious to the party that was happening everywhere else around them; until Enjolras couldn't help but notice how red Grantaire's mouth looked, forced into proximity so Enjolras could hear him over the loud music (so red, and so _inviting,_ like he was _deliberately_ teasing Enjolras); and he watched Grantaire's mouth, the mocking quirk of his lips and the sarcastic bite shaping his every word, until he couldn't hold it anymore, that unvoiced, unnamed _something_ , which he refused to think about for as long as he could remember - he let himself go, for once, and just hooked his fingers in Grantaire's belt loops and dragged him to his bedroom, pushed him on the mattress, and left bite marks all over his torso.

And after that, well... neither of them could stay away from each other for long.

It shouldn't function, but it does, oddly enough; they somehow fit, their bodies setting and rising and moving with each other in an easy unison, like they know exactly what the other one wants and needs.  The slide and push of their bodies together is a scarily familiar thing to him now, after a whole month of these nameless, late night encounters.

And Enjolras is starting to be strangely comfortable with Grantaire staying over.

For someone who has slept alone his entire life, it's a new, scary thing. Sometimes he still takes up too much of the bed, a habit from the time when he never had to share it with anyone, but Grantaire knows how to fold himself just right, even in his sleep, and set against him, filling all the space Enjolras is ready enough to give him.

Which is not a lot, but Grantaire is a man who never expected much; which is good, because Enjolras is a man who isn't ready to offer a lot.

After all, there's real life to be taken care of, protests and rallies and petitions - the whole world, waiting for him to change it; and Enjolras doesn't want anyone to slow him down in the way.

So when Grantaire murmurs "I love you", his lips hot against Enjolras' throat, burying the words in Enjolras' skin, like a secret he couldn't help but say, Enjolras, understandably, tenses up in shock.

After a moment, he opens his mouth to reply, to lie, to honour and respect and return the words, something he figured all people in relationships - if that's what they're calling it, now - must do, at one point or the other, but Grantaire presses a finger to his lips, silencing him with that one, simple gesture.

"No", he says, eyes fixing Enjolras', so brilliantly green, and a bitter smile on his lips. "Don't. I know you don't mean it, so don't say it. It's alright, it was just something I... I needed to say."

"I'm sorry", Enjolras mumbles, feeling oddly ashamed, and Grantaire huffs a laugh, burying his face back in Enjolras' neck; Enjolras can feel his vocal chords vibrating soundly against his skin, and the sensation strangely comforts him. He drags his palm lightly over Grantaire's ribs, hoping to convey his apology through his fingertips, because touching, _bodies_ are easy for him to work with; a bite here, a tug there, and Grantaire would be coming undone in his hands, gasping and writhing and asking for more.

Feelings, though, and ways of expressing them - complicated messes of things, jumbles of emotion that made life more difficult every step of the way - are not his forte.

"Don't be", Grantaire replies, and closes his eyes. He traces the bones and veins of Enjolras' right hand with his fingers idly while he talks, his voice softer than usual. "I'm happy enough as it is, to a point that is ridiculously stupid. Just... don't lie to me because you feel like it's the right thing to do."

Enjolras takes a moment to admire his sudden eloquence, and doesn't say anything in return, his chest filling with relief, and swelling with affection for this strange, dark young man, who knows him so unexpectedly well; so, instead, he just laces his fingers with Grantaire's, and pulls him closer still, until their limbs interweave and settle against each other once more, and their breathing evens and slows down as they fall asleep in each other's arms, in the dark room, speckled with blue moonlight.


	2. ii

The second time he almost says it, they're in Marius and Courfeyrac's flat, screaming at each other behind closed doors, while everyone else is in the living room, sitting in uncomfortable silence.

There is a red gash running down one of Grantaire's temples, and crusted blood in his hair. The corner of his jaw is swollen and a deep, dark shade of purple, and his bottom lip is cut, and still bleeding with every word he spits out at Enjolras, the bright, heavy colour of blood standing out from his ghostly white skin.

Enjolras can't stand looking at him like this - _the idiot_ \- so he yells and yells and yells, just to stop himself from reaching out and doing something else, something stupid, like pulling him in a tight embrace and laying kisses all over his bruised, bloody face, and holding on to him firmly until it all, somehow, gets better.

But that's not what they are, that's not what they do, the kisses are reserved for nights when Enjolras can pretend he's doing it because he needs an outlet for his tension, and Grantaire can swallow up his lies because Grantaire will accept anything, as long as it means he can be with Enjolras.

These days, Enjolras is just a mixture of feeling guilty and cruel, and wanting to ask Grantaire if this is what he really wants, and wondering about what it is he _himself_ wants, and the answer is something he doesn't want to think about.

And it's all breaking right here, right now; the dam that was threatening to burst finally did, and Enjolras is saying things - yelling at Grantaire, who looked shocked at first, but is now just as equally angry - just to distract himself from the fact he was actually afraid there, for a moment; afraid of losing Grantaire, the stupid, obnoxious git who somehow crept his way into Enjolras' life, and made everything so much more complicated.

 

Sometimes, he doesn't shower in the morning, claiming he has no time, but actually just wanting to smell of Grantaire all day, letting the scent linger on his skin as long as possible, and reminisce him of the night before, when Grantaire left smudgy traces of himself all over Enjolras' body, with a kiss here and a bite there, and hands that pressed against Enjolras' skin like silent promises and declarations, all in one.

There were also other, less visible imprints of him left in Enjolras' life, which only he knew about; like the way Grantaire's fingers clenched and unclenched in his sleep one night, and searched for Enjolras' hand blindly; how he seemed to calm only after Enjolras reached awkwardly and pressed his fingertips against Grantaire's open palm.

Memories of the way Grantaire's breath hitched whenever Enjolras slid his tongue over his exposed throat; Grantaire shuffling about his kitchen in the morning, teasing him about his fair trade coffee; Grantaire's fingers curling and twitching in Enjolras' hair, as his whole body shuddered and convulsed with pleasure; Grataire's hoodie, forgotten at the foot of the bed, as he left in a hurry, a piece of toast stuck in his mouth, and breakfast waiting for Enjolras on the kitchen counter.

More often than he'd like, he remembered things like those during the day, and had to stop whatever he was doing to smile.

He had to admit to himself, few weeks ago, that he liked it more than he ever thought he would.

He especially liked the way Grantaire fit against him in the dark, the comforting feel of another body pressing to his, two hearts beating in rhythm in the small hours of night.

Waking up on most mornings to find his bed, as usual, empty, made him miss it.

With Grantaire, Enjolras was starting to realize how lonely his life had been all those previous years.

 

They got into a fight earlier that night, all of the Les Amis, which is nothing new for them, boys bursting with rage and pride and itching to prove themselves and defend their causes, but somebody thrice Grantaire's size managed to knock Enjolras out - the bruise on his cheekbone is dark blue and hurts like hell, but that isn't important right now - and instead of letting Bahorel take care of it, Grantaire jumped at the guy and got beaten up so badly it's a wonder he's still in one piece.

And now they're in Courfeyrac's bedroom, having a shouting match, because Enjolras can't believe - _refuses_ to believe - anyone, let alone Grantaire, would go and get beaten up - his face is just a _bloody fucking mess,_ and Enjolras is so angry right now he can barely contain himself - just for _him_. He wants to run his hands all over Grantaire, he needs to touch him to know he's whole and alright, but not right now, because right now he needs to yell at him first.

"So, what's the problem now?", Grantaire shouts at him. "I can't even defend my, whatever the fuck you are to me? I can't even - for fuck's sake, Enjolras, I _don't_ want to get into this right now - I can't even get into a fight because of you, _for you,_ now?"

"Of course you fucking can't!", Enjolras yells back, livid. "You think I _want_ to see you like this? You think I want you to defend my _honour_ , or whatever the fuck you thought you were doing? Jesus Christ, it's a miracle you don't need stitching, or someone to fix your fucking jaw back into place!"

" It's fine-"

"It's not fine! You look like a fucking slab of raw meat! What the fuck made you get jump on that guy in the first place?"

"I'm perfectly able to make my own decisions, I'm not a child-"

"Then stop acting like one!", Enjolras shouts, his head throbbing with frustration.

Grantaire looks, right now more than anything, vulnerable, slight and pale and skinny and his face a fucking ruin, and Enjolras doesn't want to be doing this, but he has to.

"Just fucking take care of yourself, for once, so no one else has to! Stay out of fights you can't win!"

"Oh, look who's talking, mister _I-got-knocked-out-the-minute-I-jumped-in_! Don't _you_ tell me what to do-"

"Don't you get it, I don't _ever_ want to see you like this, Grantaire, I-"

The words stick to his throat.

He blinks slowly, and weighs them on his tongue for a moment, falling silent, which Grantaire takes as his turn to speak.

"I can do what I want, when I want to do it", he says, quietly, a vicious bite to his words.

His eyes are hard, emerald-sharp green, and look unfamiliarly cold.

"Just because you know how I feel about you, doesn't mean you can order me around. Alright, Enjolras? Your concern is really cute, but I don't need another fucking babysitter, telling me that everything I do is stupid and irresponsible. Get off your fucking pedestal for once in your life."

He turns on his heels and leaves, slamming the door behind him, and something in Enjolras' chest twists painfully at the empty space Grantaire has left behind. The room seems, suddenly, a lot colder than it did a few seconds ago.

He slowly lowers himself on the edge of Courfeyrac's bed, carefully eyeing the pair of sketchy looking boxers beside him.

He runs his fingers through his hair, and winces. His knuckles are a horrible shade of yellow and green, from the couple of punches he actually managed to land on the stranger, and he takes an interested look at them before remembering what he was almost going to say to Grantaire.

It's terrifying, the fact he might have actually meant it.


	3. iii

The third time he almost says it, they're sitting in Enjolras' bright, sunlit kitchen, eating badly made pancakes and drinking coffee, and Enjolras can't help but stare at Grantaire, who is reading a book with such intensity Enjolras thinks he's about to disappear between the binds.

He likes their shared, hushed mornings,  when both of them can shuffle around Enjolras' apartment lazily, and enjoy the silence before running off to their perspective classes.

Grantaire swears he knows how to cook, _really_ , but today he got distracted, which is an excuse Enjolras kind of has to acknowledge; just half an hour ago he draped himself over Grantaire's back while the still sleepy, dark haired man was flipping the half-cooked batter, and pressed warm fingers to his hips, leaving a trail of small, quiet kisses down his shoulder, and causing most of the pancakes to either burn or fly at the wall as Grantaire's wrists twitched spontaneously.

For maybe the first time in his life, Enjolras feels a little... clingy.

Grantaire is leaving tonight for New York, along with Feuilly, for some international young artists'  project, and Enjolras is happy for him, he really is, glad that Grantaire finally found his way out of the two-year creative rut, and is slowly paving the way to his future, but he _still_ doesn't want him to leave.

It's ridiculous. Grantaire is ridiculous.

This whole thing is ridiculous, and Enjolras will miss the way Grantaire bends his shoulders slightly forwards when he reads, like he's leaning into the story itself, pouring himself into the pages. He wants to take the book out of Grantaire's hands and put it aside firmly, and kiss him until he forgets all about the trip and his obligations, and just stays with Enjolras, and makes him more horrible tasting pancakes.

 _It's just for three weeks_ , he tells himself. _Get a grip_.

Grantaire wrinkles his nose, sniffs quietly, and turns the page.

It's so terribly, stupidly endearing, and now Enjolras does actually reach out and lightly push his book down, making Grantaire look up, puzzled. His eyes are a vivid shade of bright green in the morning light.

Enjolras doesn't know which colour of Grantaire's eyes he likes best, but he supposes he has time to figure it out.

The thought makes him strangely lightheaded.

"Interesting book?", he asks, when he realizes he has nothing else to say. He just wants to steal some time, anyway, before Grantaire inevitably leaves. For three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours, not that he counted.

(He did.)

Grantaire grins, and puts the book down completely, laying the bookmark carefully in its place, before getting to his feet and walking up to Enjolras. He slides easily between his legs, putting his arms around Enjolras' shoulders, and dips in for a kiss.

"You're going to miss me, aren't you?", he teases, a smile to his lips.

It's obvious he doesn't mean it - trust Grantaire to not even consider the possibility he might be becoming a very important part of Enjolras' life - but Enjolras still blushes.

"Shut up", he says, glancing down.

" _Oooh_ ", murmurs Grantaire mockingly, and Enjolras curves his arms around him, pulling him closer.

"You don't have to go", he says, with an unexpected amount of neediness in his voice.

"I do", says Grantaire gently, and starts to untangle himself from Enjolras' arms.

"But not yet", Enjolras insists, drawing him back, and Grantaire softens, letting himself be pulled in for another kiss. This time it's deeper, and Enjolras languidly leans into Grantaire with his whole body, trying to memorize the feel of it.

Grantaire tastes like bitter coffee and raspberry jam, and his morning scruff rubs against Enjolras' clean shaven cheeks in a strangely pleasant way; Enjolras lifts his hand to curl his fingers on the back of Grantaire's neck possessively. Grantaire makes a small noise, starting to back away, but Enjolras is not done yet; he bites Grantaire's lower lip gently, sucking it and stretching it between his own lips, before sliding his tongue in his mouth, which makes the last of Grantaire's determination melt away, and the other man fully relax in his arms. Blindly, Enjolras reaches to fist his other hand in Grantaire's t-shirt, and there is a thump and a clank as he knocks his cup of coffee in his lap on the way.

"Shit", he hisses into Grantaire's mouth, and pulls away to take a look at his suddenly damp pants, a small, hysterical giggle escaping from his lips, because a moment ago he was kissing Grantaire, and now his trousers are soaked with lukewarm coffee, and sometimes you just have to laugh at the unexpected stupidity of life.

Grantaire leans towards a nearby chair, looking amused, and reaches for a linen table cloth laying on top of it.

"Here, let me", he says, and dabs at Enjolras' crotch awkwardly, biting his lip to keep from grinning.

"I don't need - Grantaire, it's _fine_ -", Enjolras gasps, wiggling in his chair in an attempt to escape the invasive cloth, and struggling himself not to burst out laughing. "Stop - _ahaha_ \- don't, that _tickles_ -"

He smacks Grantaire's hand away, a big smile on his face, and Grantaire grins back at him before raising his arms in a sign of defeat.

"Alright, _don't_ let me clean it up... but you should still probably take those off", he says, gesturing at the dark stain on Enjolras' trousers.

"How about you help me?", Enjolras murmurs, pulling him closer again, dragging his fingers up and down Grantaire's arms lightly, and Grantaire, of all things, snorts in response. Enjolras would actually be offended, if he wasn't so preoccupied with the way Grantaire's lips curled at the corners in the beginning of another smile.

"I don't think-", Grantaire starts, before Enjolras kisses him again, letting his now sticky, coffee scented hands trail up to Grantaire's jaw, and cup his face gently. Grantaire hums quietly, contently, and moves with him, angling his face better.

Enjolras' chest feels heavy and light at the same time, and the very tips of his hair seem to curl up under the inexplicable electricity Grantaire's kisses always filled him with. He presses himself closer, hungry for more, but Grantaire breaks it off, moving for just a fraction of a breath away; Enjolras follows his mouth instinctively, his head in a haze, before he realizes that, no, there will be no more kissing.

Grantaire touches his forehead to Enjolras', breathing heavily, his fingers playing idly with the buttons of Enjolras' freshly pressed shirt.

He is still, absurdly, holding the soggy table cloth.

It makes every part of Enjolras' body sing, as he suddenly realizes something that's been enveloped inside of him for a long time, growing and growing and growing until it got so overwhelming, filling him up to his every pore, that Enjolras barely has the words for it.

But there is, conveniently, a small expression in the English language that seems to present some parts of his particular sentiment right.

He opens his mouth, the words already forming on his lips, when Grantaire turns around abruptly and walks to the sink, saying something about how he should start on the dishes, before they crust over. His voice sounds like it's coming from a great distance, and Enjolras needs a moment to focus before replying.

"Leave the dishes", he says faintly, eyes following Grantaire across the kitchen. "I'll do them later."

Grantaire says something over his shoulder, already rolling up his sleeves, and Enjolras licks his lips absently, watching him, still lost inside his own head.

_Well, this is new._

If this happened any other time, with any other person, Enjolras supposes he'd probably already have freaked out. He still isn't one hundred percent certain that he's not going to.

But the humming of the pipes and the clinking of the plates as Grantaire inexpertly scrubs them comforts him; and something about the way the sun is outlining Grantaire's profile as he bends over the sink, and the sound of his mismatched-socked feet tapping playfully against the laminate of Enjolras' kitchen, just reassures him that it's all going to be alright.

He supposes the words can wait, for some other time.


	4. iv

When he says it, the rain is tapping against the windows of Grantaire's shabby little flat, and they're sprawled over his old living room couch, limbs tangled in one warm, cuddly knot.

Enjolras is wearing one of Grantaire's raggedy grey t-shirts, and his hair is the wild sort of curly today, and slightly damp due to him getting caught in the rain on the way over from his part of town. He managed to get himself locked out of his apartment, for the third time in two months, once again forgetting his keys in the rush to get to his classes. He supposes he'll have to call Feuilly and Bahorel later, to pick his lock, or actually break it, or argue for half an hour first _whether_ to pick it or break it, anyway; but it can wait.

For now he is content just to stretch over Grantaire's couch, and enjoy the lazy April afternoon.

Enjolras can't even begin naming all the places where they touch; knees next to knees, elbows knocking on elbows, feet pressed together and hips brushing against hips. The sound of rain pattering on glass soothes him, and Enjolras feels relaxed, which, lately, happens only when he's with Grantaire.

The big demonstration he's been organizing for the past month has been stressing him out, which he refused to admit, and tried responding to it by working twice as hard, which, surprisingly, didn't help.  Some days he'd yell and yell and yell, until he wasn't sure what he was even yelling about, and Combeferre would take the phone out of his hands and tell him to go get some rest.

And sleeping alone didn't even seem like an option anymore.

He loves Grantaire's place, even though Grantaire himself has never said one nice thing about it; it has a cozy, sleepy atmosphere, and when Enjolras is there, he can forget about the world, at least for a little while. Enjolras loves Grantaire's books, piled in high columns everywhere, and half finished canvases, sprayed with bold colours; he loves the chipped mugs, scattered all over the flat, filled with various amounts of bitter coffee; he loves the old scent of cigarettes, stuck in pillows and the curtains, back from when Grantaire used to smoke; he loves the way Grantaire hums absently to the music that's constantly playing in the background of his living room; he loves, loves, loves

(him)

it.

 

He hasn't said it yet, even though he's known it for a while; he's waiting for a Moment, the kind of moment that mostly just happens in those movies Eponine and Cosette adore. He supposes it includes fireworks, or rainbows, or overly flamboyant declarations written across the sky, things he himself tries to stay clear of as much as possible.

But Grantaire deserves a Moment.

He reaches and weaves his fingers together with Grantaire's, noting the way his eyes widen in surprise.

Grantaire's constant shocks at Enjolras' affections troubled him; it seemed Grantaire still hadn't realized how much he meant to him.

He rests his forehead on Grantaire's temple, brushing his nose on his cheek. Grantaire doesn't move, instead just grazing his thumb over the back of Enjolras' hand absently, his eyes still on his sketchbook, though glazed over and distant.

Enjolras nuzzles him softly, and Grantaire just smiles, which makes Enjolras irrationally happy. He is so, so stupidly happy, here with Grantaire, curled up on an old, smelly couch, the two of them so entangled he doesn't know anymore where one of them starts and the other begins.

He inhales deeply, nose buried in Grantaire's hair, and kisses his ear.

And then, before he knows it, it slips from his lips; a gentle, confidential "I love you", no louder than a whisper.

Next to him, Grantaire goes very, very still.

"What did you say?", he says, voice hoarse.

Enjolras hesitates for a moment, and Grantaire turns his head around to meet his eyes. His expression is undecipherable, at least to Enjolras, who has trouble reading people enough as it is, and he suddenly feels nervous beyond reason.

"No, I, uh-", he starts tentatively, but Grantaire shakes his head quietly, eyes wide.

"No, I'm pretty sure you said something", he says, a small, uncertain smile on his lips.

"I love you", Enjolras blurts out, unable to stop himself under Grantaire's disbelieving stare, and Grantaire clasps his hand so hard his knuckles turn white, mouth parting lightly with such sincere astonishment it makes Enjolras feel terrible.

"You do believe me, right?", Enjolras asks, because sometimes, like right now, Grantaire still acts like he doesn't deserve him; and Enjolras, sometimes, isn't half so sure if he, in fact, deserves Grantaire.

"I believe you", says Grantaire, voice catching in his throat, and kisses him bruisingly hard, one hand slipping to the back of Enjolras' neck.

Enjolras leans into him, cradling his face with both hands, trying to convey all the sincerity of his words with his lips, and Grantaire makes a sound in the back of his throat that is half a laugh and half a sob, and Enjolras just grips him tighter. Grantaire's hands trail up and down the sides of Enjolras' body, as if to remind himself this is real and happening, and Enjolras pushes him down into the couch cushions gently, placing his knee between Grantaire's legs, which earns him a sigh.

Grantaire's hand nests in his hair, and Enjolras loves it, the slight pull and push, and he kisses Grantaire strongly enough the fingers in his hair quiver and tighten, and Grantaire exhales shakily against his lips, before pulling him in again, this time meeting Enjolras' tongue eagerly, his other hand coming up to cover Enjolras' ass. They've found a slow rhythm by now, and Enjolras lowers his hips down and grinds them questioningly to Grantaire's, who sighs in return and presses his face in Enjolras' neck, arching up to the touch. Enjolras breaks apart from him for a moment, long enough for him to meet Grantaire's eyes again, now dark, his pupils wide with lust.

"Enjolras, I-", Grantaire starts, and it's plain to see how much this is important to him; it's written all over his open, ridiculously grateful face, and Enjolras hates himself for not saying it earlier, especially because he's felt this way for a long time now. He presses a finger to Grantaire's lips, not ready to hear whatever he might say; he's afraid he might try to thank him.

Grantaire kisses his finger absently, eyes never leaving Enjolras'.

"I love you, too", he says, breathless.

"I, um, I know", Enjolras replies, and Grantaire giggles helplessly, and curls one hand in his shirt, pulling him down again.

And Enjolras wonders what the hell took him so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand it's finished!  
> Thank you all for being lovely and sticking with this 'till the end.
> 
> Go ahead and leave your comments down below, they'll be much appreciated!  
> xx


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